


Canto XXVIII (Opposites)

by thisthorn



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Drabble Sequence, F/F, Femslash, Hate Sex, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisthorn/pseuds/thisthorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>AU as of HBP. Written mostly in 2007.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Canto XXVIII (Opposites)

**Author's Note:**

> AU as of HBP. Written mostly in 2007.

**Abscond  
Word Count: 200**

There's a wand poking her in the side, the sheets are damp beneath her and she's alone in someone else's bed, but it doesn't really matter because she's late for class.

It's no surprise. Ginny has no problem recalling the events of the night before, though she's equally certain that the look on McGonagall's face, were she to hear the excuse, would not quite be worth the look on Ron's.

Men, she thinks, are almost universally obtuse.

She locates her knickers with her toes and dresses methodically, forcing herself not to imagine someone strolling in, finding her nearly naked and sleep-mussed in a bed reeking of sex. Or to imagine how many people saw her already.

She fastidiously packs regret into a small box that fits neatly on a shelf between The Diary and  _Harry_.

A scroll lies on the pillow, addressed to her in Pansy's curlicue hand and she laughs hoarsely, reading it, because she knows Draco wouldn't have Pansy on a silver platter.

Can you imagine what would happen if your boyfriend caught you sneaking out? Or, better yet, mine?

“Bloody bitch,” she thinks, then mutters it aloud, just in case there's someone around to hear her.

 

 **Bedlam  
Word Count: 300**

The din of the Great Hall is curiously muted, voices distant and wavering, like sunbeams through water. Ginny casts a languorous glance at the ceiling as she enters, only mildly disappointed not to find fish-shaped shadows passing through the enchanted sunlight.

She arrives at the Gryffindor table without realising she's moved. Nobody touches her and she scarcely feels the ground beneath her feet. She's drifting, free and inconsequential, and it gives the entire morning the lazy, comfortable quality of a dream.

If anyone has spoken to her she hasn't noticed and they haven't pressed the issue. She's glad: this just might be the one time pinching actually wakes her up and tears her out of this pleasantly insubstantial reality.

The food has no taste – she's not even sure what she's eating – but it doesn't matter, none of it matters except the cushioning silence around her ears that is quite possibly the most wonderful thing she's ever felt.

She hears the door open, then. It creaks and groans and scrapes across the floor like shattered bone on slate, and she nearly chokes on her breakfast with the effort of  _not looking_. Nobody else seems to notice or care; Ron's shovelling yet another forkful into his already stuffed mouth, as though he can't hear the military precision of resonating footfalls heading to the Slytherin table; stopping; waiting; lifting one foot, then the other; sitting down in a too-narrow space next to Draco.

People are conversing around her, but she can't imagine they hear a thing over that too-high, too-sharp, too-superior voice echoing off the stone walls as though nobody else were in the room.

She gives up and lets her eyes follow her ears. Pansy's gaze meets hers across the Hall and the silence shatters.

 

 **Corona  
Word Count: 100**

Pansy is nothing like Draco.

Pansy doesn't fill a room, reflecting and refracting attention until there's nothing but  _her_  and an insignificant  _everything else_.

Pansy's hair doesn't glow and shimmer in the morning, drawing people's stares like the sun, even though they  _know_  better.

Pansy is small and black-headed and draws whatever she can grasp to her with a smug self-satisfaction that is really quite unattractive.

Draco is incandescent and holds the world in his thrall, but when Ginny opens her eyes she sees only darkness, and she's afraid to consider she might like it better this way.

 

 **Dynamic  
Word Count: 100**

Harry was using the loo at the Leaky Cauldron when it happened.

Like waking from a dream, she looked up to find Draco Malfoy before her, dressed in light summer robes and staring unabashedly, top to bottom, taking in Ginny Weasley, dressed for a date and devoid of Gryffindor escort, with a smile that said his thoughts were anything but gentlemanly.

His eyes met hers.

Then, in a sensuous whirl of fabric and platinum hair, he was gone and Harry was back, hand suddenly too heavy on her hip, voice too loud and too familiar, and Ginny made her decision.

 

 **Egregious  
Word Count: 300**

Harry is looking at her with something between contempt and blind fury, fingers curling, hand reaching almost reflexively for his wand as the silence stretches, and all Ginny can think is Do I really have to deal with this  _now_?

She’s about to say just that when Harry lunges forward, grabbing ruthlessly at her hair and crushing his lips to hers. She could have known this was coming and she should be thinking of what she’ll say to Harry when he finally lets her  _breathe_  and she really should be scared of the way he’s obviously trying to  _hurt_  her, but her mind is too occupied with What if Pansy sees this?

The ironic clapping doesn’t fit with any of it and she’s abruptly falling away from Harry (she might have pushed him) and whirling around to the tune of Bravo, Potter, I didn’t know you had it in you.

She’s suddenly very glad Pansy’s not here and vehemently wishing Harry weren’t, either, and she’s trying to say as much but her jaw just moves soundlessly under Draco’s amused gaze until she finally settles, irrationally, on mouthing It’s not what you think.

Now there’s a conversation happening above her head and she can’t understand why Harry and Malfoy (who are sometimes Potter and Draco) are ignoring her completely until Malfoy says her name and Really, you’d be better off with me and I don’t even like you – wait, I almost forgot, neither does she.

Draco leaves Ginny looking where he was and Harry looking anywhere but at Ginny when he whispers I only ever did it for your mother.

Then they’re both gone, leaving Ginny alone in the corridor with nothing but a ringing in her ears that sounds suspiciously like He doesn’t really want either of us, you know.

 

 **Flotsam  
Word Count: 500**

It's over. Everything is broken.

Ginny isn't sure what's left to salvage, if anything. She feels like she's standing amidst the aftermath of a hurricane that, if she's honest with herself, she'd have to name Ginevra, and the devastation is so great she doesn't recognise anything in the debris that was once her life.

It's more daunting than depressing, she finds. The year is drawing to a close and she has O.W.L.s to pass; Harry's life hasn't been significantly threatened in too long: the dam has to break soon; and the seventh years are about to leave for good and this could well be her last chance to make something _happen_. 

The fact that she'll have nobody to talk to when they're gone, having made fine work of alienating her classmates all year, the fact that she's lost hold of the ropes that held together her personal romantic quadrangle, or that Ron will be sure to tell their mother  _everything_ , possibly without waiting until school's out – those are things to worry about later.

Still, she doesn't know where to start.

She wishes there were someone to tell her what to do or, at the very least, tell her what she  _can_  do. Her choices thus far seem to be a bit lacking in judgement, if not altogether stupid, and she feels unbearably exhausted, like she only has the strength for one more play before the game is called and she's too tired to understand what decision to make. 

She can't cry to her mother; the poor woman doesn't know anything of what's been happening at school and certainly wouldn't approve if she did. Her brothers, each and every one, are completely out of the question as well. Even if they could stop forever thinking of her as the baby sister, she knows the words "Draco Malfoy" are one thing sure to make their vision go as red as their hair in a heartbeat. Hermione's honestly the closest thing she ever had to a female friend, but she can already see in her mind's eye the look she'll get tonight in the Common Room, disappointed and so full of we-need-to-have-a-talk-about-this that Ginny will have a hard time holding back a sound I-don't-need-another-mother-dammit-go-nag-Ron without biting through her tongue.

Pansy would probably be her best bet but, although she didn't look particularly triumphant when Ginny last saw her, she wasn't exactly contrite, either. At least, it's not enough to suggest Pansy's in the same foundering boat as her and, because of that, Ginny doesn't find herself willing to be made a fool twice in one day.

That's the end of it – her great cadre of confidants. There's really nobody to talk to - at least, nobody she _wants_  to talk to. And it's funny, she reflects, because for the first time since the school year started, she really would like somebody to listen.

 

 **Gratification  
Word Count: 700**

“Good night, Millicent,” Draco's uninflected voice drifts down the corridor as his footsteps disappear into the boys' dormitories. “And thank you.” 

To anyone not Slytherin it might have sounded courteous, but Millicent's known him long enough to recognize the slow-burning anger beneath his coolly civil tones. She's glad this time she was only the messenger, and that Draco is gentleman enough not to hold that against her.

At the top of the staircase to the girls' rooms she pauses to catch her breath, only then realising she's panting like she just Apparated for the first time. That wasn't nearly as nerve-wracking, though - at least then the outcome was simple: success or splinching. Draco knows ways of hurting people so circuitous and devastating that the possibility alone is enough for Millicent to accord him a healthy amount of respect. And a wide berth when he's angry.

The Common Room is never so empty as when Draco Malfoy holds a midnight meeting in front of the fireplace. Millicent hasn't heard, and knows better than to ask, just why no one ever tries to eavesdrop from the wings – not even the most idiotic first-years – but she wouldn't be surprised to hear it took only one example of Draco's displeasure to make an unwritten law of it.

By the third stair she can already hear the low muffled sounds coming from Pansy's room: there are a million things it could be, but only one that it is. They never seem to bother using a silencing charm, even though the first-year dorm is just across the hall and Pansy, of all people, should well understand the importance of subtlety.

Normally she'd leave them be; her room is at the other end of the hall and she'll be able to sleep just fine while they slowly tear everything apart. But the door isn't pushed to and the dance of shadows and wandlight visible through the crack has her drawing nearer until her forehead is pressed against cool stone and the gloom becomes a clear chiaroscuro tableau.

In the eerie glow Pansy's face is all planes and sharp angles, an unflattering contrast to her normal girlish roundness, and makes her look not older, but  _old_. Millicent can't see much of Weasley beyond a few glinting strands of auburn knotted in Pansy's fingers, but she doesn't have to. It really can't be anyone else.

She's not sure when it started, but if it's anywhere near what she suspects, it's long since moved past mere curiosity. Weasley set her sights on Draco so abruptly and vigorously that the sudden defection of her attention to Pansy couldn't pass without notice. She can't imagine Pansy thought she was being discreet; she's a fool, but not stupid. Either she's so desperate she's let sail her better judgement, or she's so enamoured of the Weasley girl that her mind's gone Gryffindor, which is more or less the same thing. 

But if she's in love she has a strange way of showing it.

Millicent's always thought voyeurism was gauche, at best, but what she's watching hardly resembles sex: it's like a nude wrestling match, or perhaps a duel to the death, the only weapons hands and tongues and contempt made tangible.

Pansy's not so much holding Weasley between her legs or trying to pull her up the bed. Rather, she's clutching the hair in a clawed hand and  _twisting_ , like she'd gladly gouge the other girl's eyes out if only she could reach.

She thought Pansy was Slytherin enough to know you only fight the fights you can win.

Suddenly they change positions – probably for politic reasons, not sexual – and for the instant their faces pass through Millicent's window she gets the impression of bared teeth and furrowed brows, like thunder and lightning crashing down together.

The breathy sounds they make are not those of pleasure, but of combat; whether they're fighting each other or themselves or whatever bystander they think is to blame for the mess they're in, Millicent neither knows nor cares. 

They're killing one another – slowly, but sure as anything – and, as she leaves them there, Millicent pities them both, just a little.

 

 **Harangue  
Word Count: 100**

The look on his face should have warned her.

“…because I really do love you and I really am serious about this. Maybe someday we could even …well, I’m planning to train as an Auror. It would have made my parents proud. I just wish they could be here.

“It would be great if we all ended up in the Ministry: you, Hermione, Ron, and I. We’d make a great team -- Hermione in Research and Ron and I in…”

Ginny sighed through her smile. Didn’t he realize everyone had known for months? Then again, Harry always did overlook the obvious.

 

 **Indemnify  
Word Count: 400**

With Pansy’s thighs clamped about her ears the world is pleasantly muffled and Ginny can make believe she is somewhere else with anyone else, doing something that won’t ultimately leave her feeling tired and sore and utterly fucking  _sick_  of being Ginny Weasley.

Pansy’s voice comes from far away and Ginny’s tempted to scream herself, just to see if Pansy can hear her.

Harry never smells Pansy’s sweat in her hair or tastes it on her lips, Ron doesn’t ask who’s sending her post three mornings a week and Hermione doesn’t know Ginny looks at her some nights and thinks “I could have that if I wanted it.”

And she hopes Pansy hasn’t told Draco because it’s worse to think he already knows and simply doesn’t care.

It’s an ugly game they play, with ever-changing rules and no goal that either of them will admit to (– that rule always stays the same).

At first the challenge was getting a reaction from Pansy beyond a scowl or snide “Is that all?” and, at first, Ginny thought they were playing the same game because Pansy would bite her hand raw before she’d so much as whimper.

But eventually panting became gasping became moaning – became something too close to normal for either of them.

So Ginny changed the game: Pansy can scream all she pleases, but Ginny refuses to make a sound, crack a smile or even close her eyes in pleasure. And, thanks to her efforts, some of the smugness has ebbed from Pansy’s post-coital sneer, taking with it the occasional tenderness that was creeping into their kisses.

(The sweat running down Ginny’s back makes her shiver and she tells herself to fucking  _focus_  -- reality has no place in whatever it is they’re doing.)

There’s more violence than care in their fucking, now, though Ginny can’t work out who they’re trying to hurt or why Pansy keeps trying so hard for no reward. (Whether she wants Pansy to try harder or give up altogether is just one more question she can’t answer.)

Pansy’s hips begin bucking and rolling and Ginny slows her strokes, finally noticing the stiff cramping in her calves and the burning hypersensitivity that means pruned fingertips. It’s more familiar than the feel of her own wand and, for that moment, with her fingers squelching and Pansy breathing in gratified sobs, she truly wishes she were someone else.

 

 **Junta  
Word Count: 200**

Harry is afraid to talk to Ginny, but he doesn't have a choice: he's already asked everyone else.

Ron said girls are just like that, but don't worry, you two are perfect for each other. Hermione said she really doesn't understand girls, either, but it's probably just hormones – she has a book on feminine ailments if he'd like. Luna, who he thought was friends with Ginny, just shrugged and said, “I suppose it could be flowering kobolds – they're a problem this time of year if she's sensitive to the pollen.” She also added that symptoms usually include blistering boils and rapidly-growing toenails – not the moody reservation that's drying Ginny out like a leaf in autumn.

Nobody's been able to help him, and Harry just wants to know what's wrong in their relationship so he can fix it. They already sit together at breakfast, go to Hogsmeade, kiss and even sleep together when he can sneak her past Ron, but something's still missing.

He's willing to do almost anything to find it, short of asking Ginny herself, because he's terrified that, if he asks, she just might say that the problem is she doesn't really care about him after all.

 

 **Keynote  
Word Count: 800**

Pansy always assumed she'd end up with Draco. Growing up, he was the only boy she ever had playdates with and by the age of 10 she became aware that a good portion of the conversation -- happening while they fought over toys -- between her mother and Draco's revolved around inheritances, grandchildren and whether or not it was appropriate for them to attend the same wizarding school.

None of it mattered, then: Draco was a fine enough friend, and he never stole her hair ribbons or tried be the mother when they played "house," which made him better than most.

It wasn't until Hogwarts that it became important - vitally important - that everyone know Draco belonged to her. Hogwarts was an entirely different pitch and, until that first day of school when she saw all eyes fix on the youngest Malfoy with wonder and no small amount of envy as he strode to meet the Sorting Hat, she didn't realise Draco Malfoy was much more than an unwilling tea party companion and father to a brood of stuffed grindylow children.

Draco Malfoy, with his mother's icy colouring, is the most handsome boy in the school. With his father's temper, the most dangerous. With their combined money he sits to inherit a fortune that could make every Slytherin turn greener than their bedsheets. And, to top it off, Draco is smart. Not like the Mudblood Granger and her mountains of books - Draco possesses an innate incandescent intelligence uniquely his own. He goes through the motions of studiousness to appease his father, who could never realise the quick, violent wit his son conceals. For all that, though, it's a stealthy intelligence that he uses only for his own purposes - a patient intelligence that will one day reshape the wizarding world under the Malfoy banner.

Pansy knows all these things - knew them then, even - and fancies she's the only person who has realised that, when the smoke clears and Harry Potter and Voldemort lay scorched and dead on the ground, there will be only one wizard left who matters in the world and, for that reason, Pansy cannot afford to let anything change the plans that were made long before she or Draco first drew breath.

Ginny Weasley is another matter entirely, and one she tries hard not to think about, not even when they're tangled about each other in sheets smelling of sex and slow-simmering bitterness. She asks herself, and often, just what she thinks she's doing and, though she has many answers, she'll die before she voices any of them aloud.

She sometimes thinks of excuses, should Draco ever turn to her and actually  _notice_  what she's doing. She wants it to be impressive – she wants to be able to say 'Look at me, Draco. I've ensnared the Weasleys with my charms so we can use them to control the Ministry!' and Draco will look at her and say, 'That's my Pansy' in that gentle tone he always reserves for her (though she's yet to hear it). But she's all too aware that Ginny has no affections for her and, only by virtue of their continuing liaison has the competition been held at stalemate for so long.

Whatever her plan was in the beginning, it wasn't very good and she probably has less reason now than when she started. Only quitting has become synonymous with losing, and that is not an option; the rest of the world can merrily go up in a giant Incendio as long as she is the one Draco chooses in the end.

Though she may not know her own reasons, she's completely certain of what Ginny hopes to get from all this. She's spent too many years vigilantly defending the narrow path to Draco's affections not to recognize the mode of a challenger, no matter what new and strange tactics she may use. 

What makes her different, though, and therefore dangerous, is that Pansy suspects Ginny actually knows just how important Draco is. Potter would welcome her in an instant if she simply wanted someone rich, famous and handsome (and Potter is, for all his commonness, not hideous). But Ginny doesn't want that: she's after Draco, is willing to fight her way through Pansy to get him, and it fills Pansy with a panicky winged fear of losing because Ginny doesn't bloody well  _deserve_  him.

It's a cold war with no rules and even fewer victories; she knows the goal is Draco, but the course is twisted and seldom marked.

So it's when Draco comes upon them pressed against a wall in the dungeons, doing their best to suffocate each other with their tongues, and passes, saying, “Parkinson. Weasley.” Pansy all but screams in triumph because he said her name  _first_.

 

 **Loess  
Word Count: 100**

Ginny's missing a hair clip.

She knows exactly where it is – or where it was, at least – but if Pansy already found the damn thing in her room and recognised it, she'll have long since Evanesco'd it out of existence, possibly after transfiguring it into a piece of parchment and setting it ablaze.

It's not that she was particularly fond of that hair clip, per se, but the fact that it's gone, and that every time she looks for it she'll be forced to think of Pansy Parkinson, makes her that much more determined to never let it happen again.

 

 **Mordant  
Word Count: 200**

“Watching Potter practise, Weasley?”

“None of your business.”

“How sweet. It must really make him feel loved.”

“Bugger off and die, Parkinson.”

“That time of the month?”

“What!”

“Only you didn't visit last night.”

“I wasn't aware we had an appointment.”

“Oh, forgive me, Miss Weasley! I just thought you were trying to get our darling Draco's attention.”

“What the  _hell_  do you know about it?”

“I know you know Draco belongs to me and you can't stand it.”

“Get over yourself, Parkinson. I'm just bored. Your being here is making it worse, by the way.”

“Gryffindors are such terrible liars. In fact, you lot don't have many admirable talents to speak of.”

“I've never considered lying an 'admirable talent'.”

“No? You certainly do it enough.”

“What–”

“See, I heard a rumour recently that you've been acting strangely. That you don't much talk to your friends and that you were rather decoratively drawing my name in your book during Binns' class.”

“How–”

“So one has to wonder: have your allegiances changed? Or do you not even know  _what_  you want?”

“Fuck you, Parkinson.”

“Where are you going? What about Harry?”

“Obviously he doesn't bloody need me.”

 

 **Nescience  
Word Count: 300**

Ginny's dating Harry, and Ron doesn't know.

It was Harry's idea. Ever the hero, he decided he doesn't want his “girlfriend” to become a target for Voldemort, and Ron, for all his virtues, has never been able to keep a secret longer than it takes to find another body with ears. Ginny's just glad to avoid the inevitable over-protective older brother routine and the necessity of pretending before the entire school that, yes, she is the luckiest girl in the world because, really, Harry Potter, when she honestly couldn't care less.

Hermione figured it out, but Harry doesn't know.

There were no congratulations and, surprisingly, no questions. Just a bushy-headed girl biting her lip, saying, “I'm sure you have your reasons; I just hope you know what you're doing.”

Ginny honestly doesn't, but there really are some things Hermione doesn't need to know.

Harry lied, but Ginny doesn't know.

Apocalyptic prophecies and magical scars aside, Harry is first and foremost a 17-year-old boy. His first thought was not for the danger to Ginny, but to himself. The more Harry has, the more he has to lose and, if Sirius taught him nothing else, he knows now that bravery and good intentions aren't enough to protect anyone.

Also, if Ginny dies, the Weasleys may well never speak to him again.

Ginny wants Draco and nobody knows. 

There really isn't anyone she can tell.

Ron would hex first, ask questions later, and Ginny has no confidence is his ability to distinguish mortal enemy from beloved younger sister once the wands come out.

The rest of her family, at worst, would – for her own good – rent her a permenant room across the hall from Gilderoy Lockhart and adopt Harry to fill the empty bed in the Burrow.

And Harry.

Harry would kill her.

 

 **Obstreperous  
Word Count: 600**

Growing up around Fred and George Weasley could teach a person many important things. For Ginny, it was mostly lessons in what not to do gleaned from the tribulations and humiliations of her youngest older brother.

To twin pranksters who crossed every line with an alacrity that suggested that it had, in fact, been the entire point of the exercise, any personal information they acquired was both motive and means to some new mischief. The day the twins learned that ickle Ronnikins still wet the bed during thunderstorms was one the Weasley clan would never forget and, they fervently hoped, one they would never relive.

When it came to fears, Ginny learned to keep her lies simple and forthright. It always seemed easier to feign a lifelong fear of various innocuous animals than to constantly worry her true weaknesses would be found out and turned against her. If it caused the twins to occasionally turn all her knick-knacks into garden gnomes, well, she can live with that.

Ron, in all his guilelessness, has fared far worse. He has been, at various points in his young life and by increasingly clever methods, the only blue-haired Weasley, the tallest and shortest Weasley (both in the same day), and the only Weasley to have at some point been a member of every class of vertebrate (and also a sponge).

Ginny has, on the rare occasion that an easy target hasn't been caught first, good-naturedly allowed herself to be victim of some of the twins' more juvenile pranks, taking it with all the grace of someone who knows they've dodged a far worse fate, laughing or crying as she should so they aren't inspired to try harder.

And if Ron noticed that Ginny didn't dread hols and the arrival of the twins as he did, he neither commented nor asked how she coped, just as Ginny didn't offer the information that she was content to hide behind Ron until the opening volleys died down.

Her methods didn't bother her until the months preceding her first trip on the Hogwarts Express, when Ginny began to consider that all the years living with Fred and George might have made her a tad too devious. She wondered if she wouldn't be sorted into Slytherin, then proceeded to spend her time on the train torn between fear of what her parents would say and excitement at being something other than just another Weasley Gryffindor.

She's now glad she was made a Gryffindor, though at the time she remembers the lingering disappointment of her Sorting being nothing special, of not being able to wipe the expectant smiles of the faces of the table full of sorted Gryffindors and shock the rest of the crowd to attention. But it's like being the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing: just as being the youngest and a girl protected her within her family, being a brave and loyal Gryffindor keeps anyone at Hogwarts from suspecting her of anything but the purest and noblest intentions.

Her close ties with Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, probably don't hurt, either.

She had hoped her efficiency at remaining under the radar would do for Pansy as well, but it appears they were flying at the same level. Beneath the awareness of anyone else they collided head-on, and Ginny finds she's having a difficult time extricating herself from the wreckage.

She keeps reminding herself of her goals, of her need to soldier onwards and to remember to think like a Slytherin, but she's beginning to suspect that was never her problem.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

 

 **Proxy  
Word Count: 400**

Ginny doesn't want Pansy.

She harbours no illusions of changing her mind, falling in love, or liking the girl at all. Pansy is simply the means to an end, and if, as she suspects, Pansy feels the same way about her, all the better. Scruples are exhausting.

Harry would agree, if he had half the sense of a blast-ended skrewt. Scruples are, after all, what has him constantly angry and miserable in turns, positively seething with the conviction that regular displays of his selfless heroism are necessary to keep the world turning.

It's a burden just being in the same room as him, let alone dating him, but Harry also serves his purpose, keeping the Weasley clan off her back about binding their dark-haired son to the family with more than a monogrammed jumper, while also preventing suspicions about where Ginny's real romantic interest lies.

But Ginny doesn't want Pansy. 

She's after Draco, intends to have him if she can ever get close enough, but Pansy blocks every direct route like a three-headed watchdog and, at the time, it seemed like the best idea to hang subterfuge and try to plough straight through her. 

Only that was so long ago and there are times when she recalls her desire for Draco as something distant, like her one-time crush on the Keeper for the Falmouth Falcons. But then she reminds herself she can never be content with that: her situation is precarious and Pansy a lurking predator, just biding her time until the year ends and she can take Draco far, far away. 

Everything her brother or Harry have said about “that git, Malfoy” goes triple for Pansy. She has all of Draco's cruelty with none of his charm or intellect.

And Ginny doesn't want Pansy. 

She might not despise her quite as much as she once did; Pansy has proven herself to be an interesting diversion, after all. Between the recent lack of Dark Lords and her own dwindling supply of friends, it's not like Ginny has much else to do with her time.

Pansy, likewise, seems to have little going on beyond simpering at Draco and not-so-secretly spying on Ginny every hour of the day. It's funny: for all their combined efforts, Draco shares precious little of his time with either of them.

So Ginny may not want Pansy, but sometimes it feels like that's all she's got.

 

 **Quiddity  
Word Count: 100**

It can only be Pansy who told, but Ginny doesn't care enough to wonder why.

Ron is throwing ten kinds of fit as Hermione stands by, worrying her lower lip, unsure if she wants to stop him or join in.

Draco left before the drama began, trailing an entourage of loyal sycophants, Slytherin neophytes and a studiedly blank Pansy Parkinson.

Harry is nowhere, but Ginny doubts it possible that he hasn't heard the news. 

She adroitly tunes out her brother and stirs salt into her porridge, wondering idly if this means that it's finally over, and, if so, with whom.

 

 **Regimen  
Word Count: 200**

Two minutes into breakfast and Ron’s already upset three goblets of orange juice and scattered a plate of rolls to the four corners. It’s certainly nothing new, but Ginny joins in the mockery nonetheless. 

Staring at the Binns-colored wall, it occurs to Ginny that Draco Malfoy has a beautiful smile. Not that she’s seen it, but his teeth are white and straight, if somewhat feral; he just needs something to smile about.

Snape patrols his classroom with malicious intent, compounding his causticity with every remark, daring some inattentive Griffindor to break the dam. Colin’s always had poor luck, and Ginny cringes as Snape promptly descends upon him.

At lunch it’s Harry’s turn to wreak havoc. Hermione’s outrage at her sodden text is matched in volume only by Seamus and Ron’s Quidditch banter.

Ginny’s Transfiguration lesson drags and is ultimately pointless because, as much as she likes the idea, she can’t see an apple turning into a chocolate bar.

Dinner is quite normal, except Ginny’s not eating. Pansy Parkinson, sitting at the Slytherin table, is running her tongue over her lips in a distinctly predatory fashion. And, for the first time in six years, she’s looking Ginny in the eye.

 

 **Sepulchre  
Word Count: 300**

Harry frowns in his sleep, the furrowing of his brows throwing into sharp relief the scar that made him famous before he ever set foot in the wizarding world. He writhes to the beat of intermittent nightmares, wreaking havoc on the bedding. When Ginny is within reach he clutches and cloys, pressing her against his chest with the suffocating grip of a child on his teddy.

Ginny, however, has long practise extricating herself from both limbs and sheets: she leaves his bed soundlessly, snatches his invisibility cloak and makes the familiar trip to the dungeons.

A perpetual sneer mars Pansy's features, even in sleep, and if she was ever a pretty girl, it's more than Ginny can say. She looks small and young in the elegant oversized bed, like the spoiled rich child she is. She never invites Ginny to share her space any longer than necessary – truly, never gives any words of encouragement whatever, but they don't either of them need it.

Ginny always arrives late, waking Pansy with harsh kisses and anxious hands, because every moment she can avoid that cruel, knowing gaze feels like a victory.

Sometimes Ginny considers deliberately waking Harry as she leaves, letting him catch a glimpse of her stealing out the door in the dead of night, knowing he will follow without a second's deliberation. She would do it if only to witness the spectacular explosion that would certainly follow Harry seeing his girlfriend slip into Slytherin territory like the turncoat she probably is.

Often, as Ginny leaves Pansy's room to a snide it's been fun, Weasley – do come again, she tries to convince herself it will solve everything if she could only seal Pansy's door behind her, trap her in there like a scowling Fortunato: afraid, alone and missed by no one.

 

 **Temptation  
Word Count: 100**

The castle spires are wreathed in fog and candles burn in distant windows. Their muted glow doesn't reach Ginny where she sits on the grass, trousers long-since soaked through.

Lying, like all things, becomes easier with practise and, if the victims are her friends, her conscience troubles her little these days.

She tells herself it's nobody's business, that it's their own fault for getting involved.

She tells herself she can stop any time, that she knows exactly what's on the table. Because what Slytherins offer seldom comes without a price, one Ginny pays every time she climbs into Pansy's bed.

 

 **Unctuous  
Word Count: 100**

Harry is like the walking line of Please Forgive Me cards. 

Apparently he's done something wrong, but Ginny can't imagine for the life of her what it might be. He's not sleeping with Pansy, nor his brother's best friend; he's not even committing gross lies of omission against his parents and siblings.

Though right now she'd forgive him anything if he would just shut up. 

He pauses for breath and Pansy appears out of nowhere, slithering up behind him, speaking far too loudly in the sudden silence, “Go ahead. Lie down and beg, Potter. That's how she likes it best.” 

 

 **Verification  
Word Count: 700**

It's too hard to cast spells on Hogwarts itself – the castle's magic is too old, too complex and too probably booby-trapped – so Hermione resorts to placing tracking charms on Ginny's belongings.

The spells aren't perfect; she may be the brightest witch of her age, but her age is precisely what makes it difficult to obtain the components necessary for more sophisticated magic.

Still, she knows when Ginny's pyjamas leave the dorm and take up temporary residence in the boys' rooms. She's also aware that, more and more often, the pyjamas take a detour out of Gryffindor Tower and beyond the reach of the simple charm. Ginny never stays gone long, though, and she always returns with considerably less stealth than she left with. It takes Hermione a while to decipher what that means.

It's glaringly obvious that Ginny occasionally spends the night with Harry. Hermione's most ardent relationships may be with dusty, leather-bound parchment, but she's been friends with Harry long enough to know that physical closeness is never optional in his relationships. Hermione doesn't mention it to Ron, and she knows they're better off for it.

But there are still secrets Ginny keeps from them all. It only takes the slightest hint of mystery to put Hermione on the trail like a trained kneazle, and her search for answers starts at the library.

Hermione divides her time there between homework, researching spells to protect Harry and coming up with a way to shed light on Ginny's strange behaviour.

She considers trying to devise a reverse-Obliterate charm, but the original spell is already unreliable at the best of times. Most of the magical devices that could help her are exceedingly rare, outlawed by the Ministry or both. She occasionally considers trying to find Harry's Marauder's Map, but ever since he belatedly caught on to Hermione's paranoia about misuse he's kept it well-hidden and won't even tell his friends where he's put it.

When magical solutions are not readily apparent, Hermione resorts to good old-fashioned observation. Ginny seems to live in a state of constant preoccupation and doesn't notice that Hermione follows her around Gryffindor Tower and regularly contrives to sit next to her during meals.

It hasn't escaped Hermione's notice that Ginny sits facing the other house tables, never facing the wall. So Hermione sits on the same side, watching Ginny's eyes, waiting to follow her line of sight to an answer. The breakthrough comes at dinner three weeks later, but not from Ginny.

Luna Lovegood has been more exuberant than usual all day. She's long since stopped bothering Hermione with her nonsense, but Hermione wouldn't be surprised to hear it's the perfect time of year to find mythical creatures in her trainers at midnight or some such rot. Nor is she surprised when Luna hops up midway through dinner, rushing out of the Great Hall, presumably to perform some arcane ritual to summon the aforementioned mythical creatures into Hermione's trainers.

And then it happens.

In the Luna-shaped void across the table, Pansy Parkinson's face appears. She's seated, talking to the other Slytherins, laughing, drinking pumpkin juice – nothing at all that should have effectively captured Hermione's attention and instantly aroused her suspicions anew.

That is, until Hermione realises that, through it all, Pansy's eyes have been focused on her. 

But, no, that's not right, either. She has no reason to be watching Hermione, so – 

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Ginny go rigid, chin tucked down, but not so far that she can't see Pansy every bit as well as Hermione can. 

In that instant Hermione has a blinding flash of clarity and she almost hates herself for not realising it sooner.

Either Pansy is not being at all subtle or Hermione's epiphany also gave her the power to read people's emotions clearly for the first time in her life because on Pansy's face, as clear as ink on parchment, she sees both  _hunger_  and  _hatred_  in a combination she would have called inscrutable but for the fact she's been analysing Ginny for  _months_.

It's not a revelation, just the final piece of a puzzle that, for once, Hermione isn't proud of solving.

 

 **Withdrawal  
Word Count: 400**

Monday marks one week since Ginny’s seen Pansy.

It’s not like she’s counting, only that’s seven consecutive days she’s attended Harry’s Quidditch practise, watching him train the new Seeker for hours on end with Ron occasionally batting them Bludgers to keep them on their toes.

And it’s not like Harry expects her to be there, he just can’t seem to conceive that she might not  _want_  to be. If he weren’t so completely guileless, if he didn’t keep looking at her with those wistful mooncalf eyes, Ginny just might find the courage to tell him she has something else to do.

Which she hasn’t.

 

Tuesday sees a small riot at the Slytherin table in the absence of Draco’s marshalling presence.

Someone stole something that may or may not be a priceless family heirloom and only its immediate return can prevent the public unearthing of certain family skeletons.

It’s only when Snape swoops in insinuating room inspections that a half-eaten box of chocolate frogs is returned to its rightful owner and suddenly no two Slytherins meet each other’s eyes.

Snape stalks away, and Ginny is completely baffled.

 

Wednesday Ginny has potions with Slytherin, and she hates them all. 

Living in the dungeons they regularly see Pansy and Draco. Draco and Pansy.  _They_  aren’t forced to sit for days and weeks and  _wonder_ , because the possibilities of what they’re doing turn her stomach more than the troll eye she’s methodically mincing into a pulp.

Snape doesn’t say a word as he places a new eye in front of her.

 

Thursday Harry kisses Ginny at breakfast and she’s not looking at him when she mumbles “Not now.”

He defers to her sagacity in not giving the Slytherins one more thing to jeer at, and she almost screams because she’s only looking for Pansy. Pansy, who may well have transferred to Beauxbatons because, after a week of almost-flirtation followed by a week ofnothing, Ginny no longer knows anything about her.

 

Friday Ginny tells Harry she has a headache and doesn’t go to Quidditch practise.

 

Saturday she doesn’t make an excuse.

 

Sunday evening Ginny’s drifting toward the Tower, nearly a fortnight since Pansy became the most interesting thing in her life (excepting the diary, which she’d rather forget), when a voice whispers in her ear.

“The password is ‘hydrangea.’ My room is first on the left.”

And, in spite of everything, Ginny is surprised.

 

 **Xenophobia  
Word Count: 100**

Ginny pauses just inside the door, half-expecting to hear Snape's malevolent stride coming to ask her any number of questions she can't answer.

Then again, she suspects being caught by Snape might prove easier than the alternative.

The common room is stark, cold stone bathed in sickly green light; the contrast to Gryffindor couldn't be more obvious. She knows Slytherins aren't reputed for warmth and friendliness, but surely this is a bit  _much_?

She approaches the stairs. There's conspicuously nobody around to see her, which is funny because if she trusted Pansy, she wouldn’t have come. 

 

 **Yesterday  
Word Count: 100**

Ginny has been crying for hours with her hair stickily matted to her face.

Sixth year is over, everyone’s gone and she’s ready to throw herself at the feet of the next person through the door because in all her imaginings it never happened like  _this_.

She never realised too late there were no more chances tomorrow.

She didn’t watch everyone graduate and celebrate and forget her entirely.

She didn’t sit alone on the long train ride home.

Pansy didn’t leave with Draco and Harry with Ron, walking away with a deliberateness that clearly said they were never coming back.

 

 **Zenith  
Word Count: 200**

Ginny wakes in the morning with a contented smile already on her lips.

There are few things more gratifying that a complex plan coming together in stunningly flawless form, a fact she has only recently been able to appreciate.

She can admit in the privacy of her own thoughts that she never dared dream it would be so easy.

Draco may not be hanging off her arm yet, but she sometimes catches his predatory gaze, eyes lighting on the delicate updo that draws attention to the slenderness of her neck or the deliberate posture that emphasizes the complementary curves of her breasts and arse. Men, even Malfoys, are too simple.

Harry, for his part, is hopelessly in love and far too loyal a person to suspect betrayal in anyone he cares for. Once upon a time, Ginny would have felt bad for breaking his heart, but she's riding high on victory and their relationship is already all but a memory.

And Pansy is irrelevant, a harmless distraction who, in the grand scheme of things, never was and never will be important.

She sits up and pulls back the bed curtains. The sun is shining and all's right with the world.


End file.
